


Hello, I Love You

by chemma66



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, I dunno it's cute, John is a Flirt, Johnlock Challenges, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Sherlock likes Shakespeare, Teenlock, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/pseuds/chemma66
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson finds himself in an interesting situation when the improvement of his crucial chemistry grade relies on the tutoring of one Sherlock Holmes. Thrown into intimate study sessions after school, the two find themselves becoming closer then either had ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For grossies, based on their prompt "Teen!Sherlock's first awkward valentines gift giving", for the johnlockchallenges’ gift exchange.
> 
> This is my first time doing an exchange and it's been a while since I've written anything substantial. I wanted this challenge to jumpstart my writing once more, and it certainly has!
> 
> I hope I did alright - I've never written teenlock before but I enjoyed it. I have a full outline all typed up, so the next two chapters will be up within the week, I promise!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely Megan and Mackenzie, who encouraged me throughout and helped when I was stuck. Thank you, my dears.

##### Friday, January 10

John Watson taps his fingers against the chemistry book in front of him, mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of information he’s sure the next hour will hold. The large, clean space of the chemistry classroom makes him feel claustrophobic, with its white walls and rows of gray chairs and lab tables that serve as desks. It only reminds him of the unfortunate situation he’s found himself in.

He’s never been one for private tutoring; he’d much rather study with some mates in a relaxed group where there’s not much pressure or expectation set just upon him. But his scholarship at St. Alfred’s is coming close to being affected by his bloody chemistry grade, and if he ever expects to survive his A levels, he’ll have to do whatever he can to improve his situation. So last week he swallowed his pride and accepted his teacher’s offer for a tutor provided by the school.

John has an interesting rhythm going on the textbook, something that sounds vaguely like a Beatles tune, when Dr. Stamford walks into the lab.

“John! Good to see you,” he says, though John had seen him in his class that morning. Dr. Stamford has always been a pleasant fellow, but his course is proper torture for John.

“Dr. Stamford. Thanks for setting this up for me,” he replies, standing to greet the man.

“Of course, lad. Glad to help. Now, Sherlock should be here soon but I wanted to… introduce you to him,” Dr. Stamford explains, though his hesitation hints at something else entirely.

“Sherlock?” John repeats, suddenly more nervous than he had originally been. He’s seen the guy walking through the halls every now and then, but he’s never been in any of his classes. He doesn’t know anyone who _has_ , now that he thinks about it. Must be on some kind of independent study track, if the rumors about his freaky intelligence are anything to go by.

“He can be a bit abrasive, but he’s the most brilliant in his year. Studying ahead of his age group and all that,” he explains.

John nods, confirming the thoughts in his head. He suddenly feels an odd anticipation at the opportunity to spend time with such an elusive figure, and curses his curiosity, which has a tendency to get him into interesting situations. 

“How did he get stuck tutoring someone like me, then?” John asks, pulling himself away from other thoughts.

Dr. Stamford opens his mouth to answer, but a much deeper, rich voice sounds from somewhere behind him.

“A consequence of inane expectations, courtesy of the imbeciles responsible for my education,” it says, the owner of the voice gliding to stand beside Dr. Stamford and taking John in with one sweeping, critical glare.

“Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson. John, Sherlock,” Stamford says, gesturing to each and stepping out of the way for them to shake hands.

Sherlock, under no such allusion, sidesteps the distance between the two men and stands at the corner of the desk where John put his books. He raises an eyebrow at them both, as if their blank looks are the most pointless things he’s seen in his entire existence. Stamford makes his hasty retreat.

“Right then, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck, John,” he says with a smirk, and John is sure he means with this strange boy rather than the difficult chemical compounds he’s about to study.

John takes his seat when the doctor makes his exit, shuffling his books and papers so as to avoid the intensity of the boy still standing before him.

“Are you going to sit, then?” John asks, mustering a small chuckle as he adds, “You’re making me nervous.”

But Sherlock ignores him, waving his hand as some form of a reply and sauntering toward the front of the classroom.

“I’m assuming you’ve gone over most of the basics in chemistry, and that you’ve made it this far through the term suggests that you grasped the initial concepts at least,” Sherlock surveys the surroundings of the room rather than speaking to John, which John finds incredibly rude, but he gives the guy a chance. They have just met, after all.

“Yeah, um… I guess it’s just a lot of stuff for me to remember, on top of my other courses. And when it comes to testing, I dunno,” John shrugs, opting for nonchalance in the hopes that Sherlock will understand that he’s unwilling to fully admit to his struggles on the first day.

Sherlock turns to study him then, narrowing his eyes as he takes in each and every detail. Christ, it feels to John like he’s being flayed open like one of those poor frogs they used to dissect.

“Your ability to comprehend the information is average, but your powers of retention are terrible. You’ll not get very far in the medical career with your methods of flashcards and note-taking,” Sherlock says.

“How did you—” John begins, but Sherlock is still going.

“We’ll focus on your learning methods and ensure that the valuable concepts hold together in that thick skull of yours,” Sherlock continues, as some horrible resemblance of a mocking smile crosses his features.

John does his best to defend his average intelligence.

“Listen, mate, I know you were basically forced to help me with all of this but I can tell you there’s nothing wrong with my learning abilities and—”

“I can assure you this will be much simpler if you just shut up and do everything I tell you to,” Sherlock says, opening one of John’s heavy books and flipping to a page while it remains facing toward John.

He gapes at him for a moment before the audacity of the comment hits him square in the face.

“I’m not going to just sit here like some mindless robot and blindly take in everything you tell me!” John bites back in reply, furious that this complete stranger thinks he can treat him like some kid from primary school.

“You should,” Sherlock says, reading upside down and barely even registering John’s presence. “While I am a year younger than you, my grades and impending plans to produce excellent A levels are both clear pieces of evidence in the case that I am indeed _smarter_ than you.”

“No,” John says, slamming his hand over the book Sherlock is scanning in front of him. Sherlock finally looks up to regard him with annoyance.

“Well, I am smarter than mostly everyone at this school. You shouldn’t be upset,” Sherlock explains, as if it would calm John any further. He shakes his head.

“You’re not just going to pump me full of information that I turn and barf back onto the page. I want _help_ , I want to understand so I can do better. Not just so I can pass the tests.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, so John takes a breath and continues.

“I actually like what I’m learning here. I want to do well. I’m not just a passive listener,” John explains.

“Hm. You aren’t, are you,” Sherlock finally replies, narrowing his eyes once more. John swears he might have to just punch those beautiful damn things until he can’t see out of them anymore, but something is holding him back. He wants to know what’s going on in that crazy head over there. Ever since this boy stepped into the room, it's been an exciting battle of banter and wits, and they haven't even started on the chemistry yet.

“Like I said, your comprehension of the material is average, meaning you’ve been able to keep a steady grade throughout your years. A scholarship to the school was acquired through a mutual acquaintance, someone who served with your father overseas, and your ability to produce an admirable but no doubt sentiment-riddled entry essay. You’ve found the course load here to be more than you’re used to, and this higher-level class was simply the breaking point in your otherwise adequate methods. That, and your recent breakup with your girlfriend.”

“My… what?” John hadn’t been expecting the rush of spot-on information about him that Sherlock couldn’t have possibly known, but for some reason the last comment about Sarah had completely thrown him off more than anything.

“Your girlfriend. Probably your age, probably some average looking girl with red hair that was your friend before you both decided to date. Ridiculous. Things were going perfectly well and exceptionally boring, until you started having feelings for someone else.”

John’s face clouds with red as Sherlock nears a very sensitive subject. But instead of calling him out, Sherlock glances away, just for a split second, and then returns.

“So you had a normal break-up, blah blah, still remain friends through some imaginary social obligation, everyone is still nice to everyone. How wonderful. But this has done nothing to improve your grades. So, now that I have established that I am smarter than you, as I said... can we move forward?”

John has a hard time getting his mouth to form words.

“How did you… how did you know all of that?” He asks.

“Simple. Body language, the obvious details written all over your clothes, backpack, books; everything points to an average life and mundane circumstances,” Sherlock answers easily, pulling on the book still clenched in John’s grasp.

“That was… brilliant,” John says, nearly to himself as he releases the book.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“That was absolutely brilliant. Every bit. You were right, of course. You didn’t have to be such a prick about it, but you were right. Amazing, really,” John says with a smirk.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to know how to reply, instead opting to study the words held within the chemistry textbook. John isn’t sure what it is about Sherlock, but something about his razor sharp intellect and ridiculously fast mind make him want to peer closer, rather than run in the other direction, as he’s sure a normal person would do. He realizes that scaring him off is exactly what he’d intended, and John decides, then and there, he will do the opposite. 

“So, about you being smarter...” John flashes Sherlock his most charming smile, his hand waving in the general direction of the texts and notes they should be focused on. He's satisfied with the tiniest hint of a blush that Sherlock manages to hide as he swirls to pace the room once more.

“Let’s begin,” he says. 

The rest of the tutoring session consists of John doing his best to keep up with Sherlock’s teaching methods and rushed explanations, and Sherlock in turn frequently becoming frustrated at his brain’s normal speed. But every once in a while, Sherlock’s mind will make one of its impossible jumps, and John will be right there next to him. 

John starts to love these moments, because he can tell he’s surprised Sherlock, and it’s just about the best feeling he’s had in a very long time. Well, that, and whatever it was he felt when he saw Sherlock blush.

He decides that not only will he be able to survive these grueling tutoring sessions; he might actually look forward to them.

 

 

##### Friday, January 17

John takes his seat in the vacated classroom for the second time that day, anxiously awaiting Sherlock’s arrival. He’d spent the week alternating between dread and awe, thinking of all of the facts and experiments Sherlock had explained to him; in truth, he was fascinated, but it was a lot of information to take in. He wasn’t sure he could keep up with Sherlock, but God knows he wanted to. He wasn’t looking forward to the chastising Sherlock was sure to dole out when he inevitably struggled through their lessons today, but he found himself wanting to see the boy regardless. It seems as though his sharp looks and harsh words weren’t enough to put him off in the least.

There had been that one moment in their first meeting last week where John was sure Sherlock would step over the line, would reveal exactly why John had broken it off with Sarah. Sherlock had guessed everything else - it wasn't too much to wager he knew that intimate detail as well. John isn't sure why Sherlock glossed over the detail that John had only just realized about himself, but it makes him feel oddly grateful. As if he knew Sherlock might not take as much care with someone else.

Before John can riddle through his confusing thoughts any longer, Sherlock strides through the door to the room. John gives himself a moment to gape, because honestly, what high schooler wears a coat like that to simply move from class to class?

“Don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t been here all day,” Sherlock says, sweeping off the large garment to reveal a tight fitting purple collared shirt and black slacks. John glances down at the rumpled school uniform he still wears, pulling self-consciously on the hem of the sweater that rides up on his stomach from being washed one too many times.

“You weren’t in today?” John asks.

“I finished my course work for the day within the first hour of classes. It took some convincing and a bit of well-placed comments to the frivolous woman who teaches maths, but I was able to return to my flat and work on much more important things,” Sherlock explains as he takes a seat next to John. John counts the concession to sit next to him as a victory and a step forward in this weird… camaraderie they have here, and attempts conversation.

“Oh? What things?” John asks, leaning over the desk in an effort to catch a glimpse into Sherlock’s world outside of St. Alfred’s.

Sherlock looks as though he’s about to indulge John in this before he takes in John's eager posture; he suddenly snaps his mouth shut and shoots him a knowing glare.

“Honestly John, it would be of no matter to you, nor would it improve your own grades. What use could it be? Now, let’s—” Sherlock starts before John gathers his courage to interrupt. Perhaps a week away from him has made John forget, but he wants this session to start a bit differently, if he can help it.

“Just a minute now, Sherlock. I’ve spent the last six or so hours studying my arse off and cramming information into this ‘thick skull’ of mine. I think I’ve earned a bit of small talk before I hit the books again,” he says, hoping the day away from school has put Sherlock in some form of good spirits.

“Small talk is dull,” Sherlock replies quickly, but John smiles. He hasn’t dismissed it entirely.

“It’s not bad once you get past it. So, you have your own flat nearby? That’s interesting,” John continues.

“My mother maintains the rent and other finances, of course,” he explains.

“But she doesn’t live there with you?” John asks.

“No, obviously,” Sherlock says, with a roll of his eyes. “That is what I was implying, John. She spends most of her time at our country house in Sussex,” he says, turning his attention to the notebook before him, which he begins to thumb through.

“Right. And what about your Dad?” John asks, thinking that at least a family history would be nice to have so he can begin to fill in the picture of this person before him.

“It’s of no use to you and completely pointless, as are your attempts to get to know me better. Whatever convoluted scheme you have, it will do you no good in the effort to improve yourself academically,” Sherlock bites back. Well, that didn’t last very long.

“Convoluted scheme? What are you even talking about?” John asks.

“What other reason can you have for inquiring about my life or my free time? You’re hoping to befriend me in order to gain my trust and most likely my skills. As much as it would be easier and less painful to simply do your coursework for you and insure your grades are sufficient on your exams, we would inevitably be found out and both of our academic careers would suffer major set-backs,” Sherlock explains.

There’s a moment of silence between the two, obviously a challenge from Sherlock for John to deny the claims, but all John can do is stare at him in shock. That is, until he starts laughing uncontrollably.

“What?” Sherlock asks, genuinely confused. “What is so funny?”

John can’t seem to stop, which causes Sherlock even more discomfort. He’s only able to reign himself in when Sherlock makes to stand and leave the room.

“Wait, wait, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed at you,” John says, pulling on Sherlock’s arm to slow his departure. Miraculously, he pauses to listen. “But it was just… so completely wrong. And after all of the brilliant things you said last week, I found it funny.”

“I’m never wrong, John,” Sherlock declares.

“I hate to break it to you, but I was honestly just interested in you, Sherlock. I’m sorry if that surprises you,” he says, a smile creeping onto his face despite his efforts to remain serious.

“I won’t help you cheat,” Sherlock says, though he seems a bit more cautious this time.

“Alright. Sounds fair enough,” John assents, knowing further argument will get him nowhere at this point. “Can we try again?”

John pulls out the chair next to him that Sherlock had previously vacated, indicating with a smile that he should join John once more. Sherlock eyes the seat carefully before ignoring it, choosing instead to stand in front of the desk as he had in their first session. John shrugs and shoves the chair back in, though it stings slightly to be right back where they started.

“It’s too early in the game for me to give up just yet,” John mumbles, but curses himself a second later for being too forward. He glances up and swears he sees Sherlock give a slight smirk before he begins a long dialogue about ionic bonds.

Halfway through their session, Sherlock moves to John’s side to explain something, and finally takes a seat in the chair he’d refused. John says nothing, keeping his triumphant smile from reaching the surface. For a moment, he thinks about how much trouble he is really in, but dismisses it quickly. He’s always had a tendency to go toward the more unconventional and dangerous, anyway.

 

 

##### Friday, January 24

John rounds the corner of the hallway leading to the lab, and pauses when he sees Sherlock walking towards the door from the other direction. Knowing he has just a brief moment before the other boy notices, John takes a second to admire him. He would be lying if he said Sherlock hadn’t occupied a good bit of his thoughts the past week, as much as he’d been trying to buckle down on his studies. John had always taken quickly to new people, wanting to know their story and be included in their lives; he tended toward the friendly and social, and Sherlock seemed to present an interesting challenge in that respect. That, and the obvious fact that he was not at all bad to look at.

John banishes the thought when he sees Sherlock pause in front of the door, sure he’s been caught staring. But the other boy is looking down, oblivious to the seemingly empty hallway. He seems to take a deep breath, and actually reaches up to smooth down his hair and straightens the dark blue blazer he wears over his collared uniform shirt and tan slacks. If John weren’t totally convinced it was impossible, he would think that Sherlock was actually _nervous_ and was conscious of how he looked in front of John.

He does his best to tamper down the grin that’s appeared on his face when he follows Sherlock through the door a few moments later, plopping his backpack upon their customary table.

“Alright, Sherlock?” He asks, flashing a welcoming smile toward the boy who has plastered a perfectly uninterested mask upon his face.

“Perfectly adequate,” Sherlock responds, surveying the leftover equations still littering the board at the front of the room.

“How was your week? And you can’t say perfectly adequate,” John says, sliding over to stand next to him and better gain his attention.

“Filled with mumbling teachers who barely understand what they lecture, and students who grasp even less. I was able to reach an interesting conclusion on one of my experiments yesterday, though my landlady wasn’t too pleased with the smell it produced,” Sherlock answers, looking quite pleased with himself.

John chuckles, waiting for Sherlock to continue, though it seems he has taken a significant trip within the realm of his own thoughts.

“Well, since I’m guessing you’re not going to explain this fascinating experiment to me, now would be the point where you ask how my week was,” John offers.

Sherlock glances in his direction, an epic sigh escaping his mouth as he crosses his arm and leans back onto the desk behind him.

“I already know the answer to that question, so why would I bother?” 

“Oh?” John challenges, perking up at the opportunity to witness Sherlock’s brilliance for himself.

“You’re in a good mood, actually looking forward to our session, which is due to the fact that you had a chemistry quiz this week which you did well on. Dr. Stamford has noticed your improvement and even sought to tell you. It’s relieved your stress considerably and allowed for more focus to return to your other courses, which you’d been afraid were suffering as of late,” Sherlock explains, hardly pausing to breathe.

“Fantastic,” John says, before he can stop himself. But rather than brushing him off, Sherlock looks at John almost as though _he’s_ the fantastic one; it’s hard for John to fathom, how gifted this boy is though he seems to never receive acknowledgment for it. And as far as John is concerned, that's very important.

“Thank you, Sherlock. For all of this,” John says, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a mere half second. Sherlock holds his sincere look for a the space of a breath before glancing away, but John notes that at least he didn’t cringe from his hand.

“I _am_ required to be here, you know,” Sherlock explains, moving around the table and take his seat.

“Oh, well, thanks mate,” John scoffs, slumping into his own chair.

“And…” Sherlock starts and John tries not to hold out too much hope. “It should be said that you aren’t _completely_ incapable. Though, we're only in our third session. Plenty of time left for you to prove otherwise.”

John smiles sincerely, understanding the compliment when he hears it. Sherlock hides in the book before him, turning through the pages to the chapter they studied last week. Suddenly, John is reluctant to begin the lesson and break this moment between them.

“Can I ask you something, then?” John begins, though he plans on asking regardless of Sherlock’s answer, if only to see his reaction.

Sherlock merely nods, not particularly interested either way.

“When you were saying all of those things the first time we met, why did you leave the bit out about my breakup with Sarah? I mean, you know everything else. Why skip over that?” John asks in a rush.

“I didn’t ‘skip over’ anything,” Sherlock replies, though he’s not looking at John anymore.

“You did. Does it make you uncomfortable or something?” John says, the fear barely creeping into his question.

“No!” Sherlock answers quickly. “That’s not… no.”

“Then why did you not say anything about the fact that I broke up with her because one of my mates kissed me at his birthday party? You had to have known, at least from my… stance or something. Hell, you probably even know his name.”

Sherlock seems shocked that John’s laid everything before him, but doesn’t seem put off by it as John originally expected. 

“You did know, didn’t you?” But John isn’t really waiting for an answer. “With the way Sarah’s been so damn understanding about the whole thing, and how Mark acts around me now, especially when I explained how I was alright with it,” John hides his reddening face in his hands.

Sherlock, surprisingly, says nothing. John isn’t sure whether that’s a good sign or not.

“If you had any suspicion, you could tell from just one glance at our group at lunch. But it’s written all over my face, isn’t it? And my damn grades,” John continues, oddly relieved to finally say all of this out loud.

The silence continues as John collects himself, attempting to reroute his mind back to the issues at hand: Chemistry. His damn scholarship. Sherlock running for the hills.

“You seemed…” Sherlock meekly breaks the silence, and John snaps his face up to look at him. Sherlock clears his throat and attempts to continue. “I don’t have a firm handle on social conventions, John. I can fake various things when necessary, but when it comes to sensitive issues and social cues, I am lacking.”

John’s face still rests in his hands, so he drops one in order to hear Sherlock clearly.

“You looked how I feel, when others ask me about my father, or worse, when they try to offer their sympathies and condolences,” Sherlock explains. John lifts his face. Sherlock struggles to look John in the eye, but he’s still not turning away.

“So that’s…” John begins.

“Yes, that’s why I didn’t want to speak about it last week. He’s gone, and there’s no point in dwelling on that fact, though others seem to insist quite frequently.”

John frowns, knowing how much Sherlock must have gone through. This boy, who relies on reasoning and logic, forced into talking about emotions and feelings to strangers and people who pretended like they cared. He wishes he’d known Sherlock then, had been there as a friend early on, if only to offer a comforting presence. Both of their lives had been changed by situations beyond their control, though of varying circumstances; both of them had been subject to "friends" and people who thought they knew better when it came to their personal issues.

“Okay,” John says.

“What?”

“Okay. You don’t want to talk about it, I won’t ask,” John explains.

“Good,” Sherlock answers. Nodding to himself and reverting his attention back to the books before him.

They spend most of the time they have left going over the harder chemical equations from John’s course work, trudging through the intricacies of why each one was difficult for him and what exactly was giving him problems. Sherlock seems to revel in this comfort zone of his, gaining confidence from the knowledge that he acquires so easily. 

It’s toward the end of their time together that day when John decides to broach another sensitive topic. In for a penny, right?

“So what about you, then?” John asks as he gathers his papers together.

“Hm?” Sherlock replies, finishing a few notes on one of John’s older assignments.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Sherlock stops and looks at John with a puzzled expression, as if the answer should be obvious.

“I… don’t. It’s not really my area,” Sherlock answers. John’s eyebrows begin to rise of their own accord, and he struggles to elaborate. “I don’t have time for anyone. Especially insipid teenage girls.” 

“Right, that’s one way to put it, I guess,” John says with a smile, stuffing his papers into his bag. “But you’re taking extra time every week to sit here and talk me through all of this, which you clearly mastered years ago. Makes sense.”

John smirks at Sherlock as he slings the bag over his shoulder. He knows Sherlock has a perfectly valid reason for being here, but after all of the progress they made today, he can’t help himself.

Sherlock defiantly holds his gaze.

“I did tell you, John. I was forced to be here.”

“Of course,” John allows, moving a bit closer than necessary to snatch his paper and pencil from Sherlock before heading toward the door.

At the threshold, he allows himself one more glance back to Sherlock, who is busy rising gracefully from his seat and straightening his outfit once more. John finds himself already looking forward to next Friday, when he’ll be able to spend another hour or two studying by Sherlock’s side. He finds it almost absurd how quickly this amazing person has so easily barged into his life, taking up all of the space he could have spared for him in his head, and then some. Sherlock has possibly become an instability that John shouldn’t gravitate toward, but one that he enjoys all the same.

 

 

##### January 31

John jogs down the quiet hallway, his loud footfalls echoing off the walls as he rushes to the chemistry classroom. He doesn’t want to skid into the room, just out of breath; but he doesn’t want to be any later than he already is.

“Sherlock!” He says, when he sees the boy drawn into his mobile at their usual desk. His head barely gives John an indication that he knows John’s entered the room.

“More important things occupying your time than retaining your scholarship, John?” He mutters.

“No, no…” despite his efforts, John still sounds like he’s been running the whole way. Damn. “I got caught up in something, I’m sorry.”

“Twenty minutes,” Sherlock bites back. “Twenty minutes of time when we could have been working, and you’d rather waste it—”  
Sherlock stops as soon as he turns toward John, looking at him and studying his demeanor in mere seconds.

John knows what’s coming, so he slumps over, depositing his bag upon the desk and preparing himself for the harsh remarks.

“You ran into Sarah after class,” Sherlock states, not a question so much as an accusation. “I’m sure she divulged in your desire to speak about the useless tension creating problems amongst your dull companions, and that’s where you decided to spend your time today.”

“No, Sherlock, I honestly didn’t intend to spend so much time talking to her. As soon as I saw the time, I rushed over here. Surely you can see that,” John gestures to his haggard appearance and the books spilling out of his half-zipped bag.

Sherlock doesn’t even acknowledge his argument, waving his hand to dismiss it before opening the book before him.

John frowns at Sherlock, seeing beyond his dismissive mask to the confusion underneath – but John hadn’t intended to snub him in favor of Sarah, and wishes he could just explain that to him. But before he can open his mouth, Sherlock’s already begun to delve into their lesson.

The next half hour passes quickly, with Sherlock speeding through most of John’s questions; the air is nearly devoid of the small bit of warmth and closeness they’ve gradually been working toward, and John absolutely despises it. But once their time comes to an end, he can’t think of anything impressive enough to garner Sherlock’s attention, so he lets it slide.

“Thanks for waiting on me today, Sherlock,” he says as he packs his books.

“I simply assumed you’d do the same,” Sherlock answers, glancing up briefly before he exits the room in just a few strides.

John watches after him as he exits, his form creating a dark shadow that slips from his sight faster than he’d like. John releases an impressive sigh, one that he’d been keeping inside once he realized that Sherlock was going to remain cold and short throughout their entire session. 

Though he’s said what he could, John still feels as though he and Sherlock parted on the wrong terms. They only have this small amount of time together, anyway. He has to make the most of it, and he understands then that these sessions have been more than simply studying for him; they’ve been a chance to form a unique friendship with Sherlock, who he’s grown to admire and respect beyond the misconceptions placed upon him.

John jumps from his chair, checking that his things are together before hurrying out the door to follow after Sherlock. He isn’t quite sure what he’s going to say, but it has to be something more articulate than “I’m sorry.”

John hurries down the hallway and around the corner, sure that Sherlock hadn’t been walking fast enough to leave the building already. But sure enough, the double doors ahead of him close just as he glimpses them, and he picks up the pace in order to catch the boy before he leaves the area completely.

Just as he pushes the door open, John surveys the lot, looking for a tall figure with dark curls stalking in the direction of the road or the few cars left parked there. Instead, he notices two figures crowded closely together some yards from him, one being dragged around the corner of the school.

Fearing the worst but mostly curious, John goes toward the impending scuffle; he huffs to himself in defeat when he sees that the person being dragged is indeed Sherlock, and quickens his quiet approach.

“—shouldn’t have gone to the Dean, Holmes,” the other figure, a large boy with dark, sandy hair says. He’s wearing a standard uniform hoodie, but it doesn’t do much to hide the growing muscles and impressive form lurking underneath.

“I could’ve taken the matter further, Sebastian, so you should be grateful,” Sherlock replies, undaunted by the fact that this other blokes face has grown even more red. He takes Sherlock by the thick collar of his coat and draws him closer.

“Jim will find a way to pay you back nice and proper, then,” he grits out between clenched teeth as he raises his fist.

John decides to take that moment as his cue and steps forward to interrupt their little chat.

“I think you should back off there, mate,” John says, giving Sebastian the most imposing glare he can muster.

Sebastian regards him coolly for a moment before turning back to Sherlock.

“Friend of yours?” He asks, and Sherlock jerks his head quickly.

“Of course not,” Sherlock says, but John isn’t listening to him much. “Do continue on your way. I’ve got this under control,” Sherlock shoots in his direction.

But John won’t let him off that easily.

“No, I think you might be wrong on this one, Sherlock,” John answers, stepping forward to stand closely next to Sherlock and glare up into Sebastian’s face.

“I’d appreciate if you let go of my _friend_ here, and we can all be on our way without anymore trouble,” John tries once more, putting extra emphasis on the word ‘friend’ for reasons not at the forefront of his mind at the moment.

Sebastian barely lifts his gaze from Sherlock before forming some other threatening remark, no doubt intended to scare John off; John doesn’t give him the chance, rearing his clenched fist back and delivering a swift punch directly to Sebastian’s rather large nose.

The punch doesn’t do much damage, but it manages to knock the bulky kid off balance. Sherlock slips from his grasp, moving behind Sebastian to gather his arms into some complicated head lock that John doesn’t even see coming himself. He goes with it, moving back into Sebastian’s space once Sherlock has him partially subdued.

“Now, it’s not really a fair fight we have here, so I’m willing to let this one slide. But I want you to leave Sherlock alone, alright?” He warns, though he knows the chances of this kid actually humoring him are slim to none.

Sebastian grunts something unintelligible in reply and struggles in Sherlock’s grasp, which only manages to constrict his movement further as Sherlock tightens his grip.

“You’d do well to mind your own business, mate,” Sebastian spits back.

“I dunno what happened between you two, but I know that Sherlock’s smart enough not to make enemies out of nothing,” John replies.

Sherlock scoffs behind the boy, shoving him out of their way as he releases him. 

“It’s pointless to try and offer him any form of logic, John,” Sherlock says, though he directs it in the direction of Sebastian.

John waits for the inevitable lunge forward from him, but Sebastian just looks between the two and makes some sort of decision in his head.

“Don’t think for a second that Jim will be any easier to reason with, Holmes,” Sebastian says, swiveling in the other direction and stomping away in his large boots that grind against the pavement.

Once he’s a fair distance away, John turns to Sherlock, merely lifting an eyebrow in question, though he doesn’t expect a detailed explanation.

“A simple matter blown out of proportion,” Sherlock says, straightening the lapels of his coat.

“Yeah, right,” John says, crossing his arms. “Sure looked like it.”

Sherlock regards him for a moment before smirking, which only spurns John to break out into a smile himself.

“Well, I am grateful you decided to be prompt this time,” Sherlock says, as though it was John’s responsibility to follow after him at that exact moment.

“You’re welcome,” John replies, but it comes out as a genuine acknowledgement rather than the sarcastic bite he’d been going for.

Sherlock’s smirk blossoms into a real smile as he turns away, but before he’s taken a step, he mutters something.

“Thank you, John,” he says, turning his head slightly to the side.

“I just assumed you’d do the same for me,” John replies before he can think of anything better to say.

John continues to watch Sherlock walk toward the main road, half assuring himself it’s simply to make sure he makes it there unharmed. But as the other boy rounds the street corner out of his sight, John feels the pull keeping him there blossoming into the odd sensation that he wants to follow.

Instead, he turns back toward the school to gather his things, resolutely not much looking forward to the weekend ahead, though he feels he should.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! Getting closer to the actual Valentine's Day gift giving, I promise. I will try my best to get it done this week, but I can promise it will be up at least by next weekend. I want to make it as fluffy and lovely as possible.
> 
> A few things I forgot to mention last time:
> 
> -Their school, St. Alfred's, is entirely of my own invention. I did do some research into UK school systems and such, but I didn't want that to be the focus of the fic. So... if there's any horrible errors, I hope it doesn't get in the way of your reading.
> 
> -I set the time period to share the dates of our Valentine's Day this year, since it fell on a Friday and it just seemed more relevant to me.
> 
> That's all. Enjoy!

##### February 3

The front yard of the school is slowly filling with students milling about on a Monday morning, bracing the slight chill outside rather than closing themselves indoors to face the week ahead.

John pulls his jacket closer to himself, draining the last of the now warm tea that’s left in his cup. He joins Sally, Anderson, and Bill where they’re sitting by the concrete steps to the side of the entrance; he glanced around for Sarah and Mark, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he doesn’t see them. Sally half-heartedly bats away the smoke Bill puffs in her direction from his cigarette, Anderson smirking at him all the while.

“Alright, John?” Bill asks. “How was your weekend?”

“Yeah, we didn’t see you at Sarah’s on Saturday. You missed Billy falling on his arse in front of everyone,” Sally adds, giving Bill a nudge as her and Anderson share in a laugh.

“Ah, shut it,” Bill mutters, stubbing out his cigarette on the ground.

“I’m sorry I missed that,” John says with a smile. 

“What kept ya?” Anderson asks.

“My mum,” John explains, though he’s reluctant to continue. “She’s running me up the wall with this scholarship shit. I can barely make a cuppa without her asking me about other work I should be doing.”

“Christ,” Anderson says, “That would drive me mad.”

“Your mum already drives you mad,” Sally quips, drawing a laugh from John and Bill.

“It does, really. It’s to the point where I look forward to school to get out of studying at home,” John says, rubbing a hand over his face.

“That’s pretty sad, mate,” Bill says, clapping a hand on John’s shoulder for comfort.

“We have another test coming up in chem this week, so I’m hoping showing her good marks on that will get her off my back for a bit,” John says, perking up a bit at the thought. He tosses his empty cup into the bin nearby.

“Ah, just in time for Valentine’s next weekend!” Bill shouts.

“Yeah, we were just making plans, John. Cinema, maybe bowling?” Sally asks.

“What, you two don’t have some romantic thing planned?” John replies.

Anderson gives a fake grimace, prompting Sally to smack him roughly on his arm.

“Nah, we thought we’d do a… what would it be, then? Triple double date?” Anderson says.

“That is, if you and Bill can convince some girls to spend more than a few hours with you,” Sally adds with a smirk.

“Oh, sorry there Johnny. I’ve already got mine in the bag,” Bill says.

“Really?”

Bill nods, pride exuding from his dark features. 

“It wasn’t that girl from the year under us who you were trying to snog all Saturday night, was it?” Anderson asks.

“Piss off, she gave me her number,” Bill grumbles in reply.

“She probably just feels sorry for you,” Sally sniggers, hiding her face in Anderson’s shoulder.

“That, and she was completely pissed by the end of the night,” Anderson adds.

Bill looks as though he’s about to lunge at Anderson any moment, taking advantage of the fact that he’s laughing with Sally and completely distracted.

“Aw, give him a chance, guys. Let him at least try to impress her before she inevitably dumps him,” John says, dodging the kick that Bill directs toward him instead.

“What about you then, John? You going to spend Friday night alone with your hand and some chemistry books, or you going to come out with us?” Bill responds.

John honestly hadn’t thought much about his plans beyond getting through the test on Thursday and then doing a bit of winding down on Friday, hopefully with some good news for Sherlock on his progress. And just like that, his mind races off in a direction that’s completely pointless to even consider. What would Sherlock be doing on Valentine’s Day, he wonders. Someone like him, especially with the way he considers everything else people their age normally do, would certainly be spending his Friday immersed in experiments or something equally as important and unrelated to socializing.

“I guess I’m not sure yet,” John finally answers.

And it’s not that he doesn’t want to spend time with his friends; these past few weeks he’s hardly been able to chat much outside of class and lunch, and a chance to forget about his bloody grades would be a godsend. But suddenly the thought of Valentine’s Day and subjecting himself to pretending he’s interested in someone else just completely turns him off. Not when the one person who’s been occupying his thoughts would probably rather stick his head into a beehive than subject himself to going on a _date_. John smiles at the thought, thinking said person would probably be fascinated with the beehive and relish the “data” from the experience.

“It would do you some good, John,” Anderson says as they gather their things to head inside.

“Yeah, you need to take a step away from all of the chemicals you have clouding that brilliant mind of yours,” Sally adds with a reassuring smile. “Spend some time on a different subject, at least.”

John considers it, stopping to hold the door as they make their way inside.

“You’re probably right, as usual, Sally,” John answers, smiling at her as she passes.

And as John shuffles his way through his classes that day, Sally’s suggestion ruminates in his mind and he forms something of an idea. It will most likely come to nothing, he tells himself. That, or it will just cause more stress for him. Either way, he’s hardly able to contain his anticipation when the day finally comes to an end.

John waits by Sherlock’s locker, the number helpfully provided by the blushing blonde woman at the desk in the front office. It was right outside his last class for the day, so he knew he wouldn’t miss him if he were the first to step out of the door – which he was. But as the hallway clears steadily, students and teachers rushing home after valiantly making it through yet another Monday, John begins to doubt himself. 

He considers Sherlock’s tendencies and realizes the likeliness of his even using a locker are probably even slimmer than those of him staying through a full school day. Rolling his eyes, he slings his bag over his shoulder and rushes home to charge the dead phone in his pocket, making one last stop by the front office.

#### 

\------------------------

Sherlock turns the knob of his microscope, adjusting the focus on the slide on the display by a minuscule amount. Keeping his eye glued to the eyepiece, he reaches his hand out toward the notebook and pencil he left nearby on his desk. He adds a note to the growing list of details on his current experiment, and continues to study the slide.

A curious buzzing sounds from his jacket, and it takes him an embarrassing amount of milliseconds to realize it’s his mobile registering its presence – or rather, the presence of someone else interrupting him.

He contemplates ignoring the call, then calculates the probability that whoever it is will simply call once more. Especially taking into account the likelihood of someone calling him, which only adds to the chance that it is indeed something “important.”

Within the space of two full buzzes, Sherlock decides to step back from the microscope and draw his phone quickly out of his pocket before answering.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Uh… Hi. It’s—”

“John?” Sherlock asks after hearing the voice, cursing the surprise in his voice and the way his mind immediately focuses on the sounds coming through the small speaker.

“Yeah, John Watson. I was hoping I might ask you a favour, if I’m not interrupting you or something.”

“How did you get my number?” Sherlock asks, though he immediately knows the answer as soon as he voices the question.

“Well, I went by the office to get your locker number first, but you didn’t go by your locker after school so… then I went back and asked for your number, since… you weren’t by your locker so I couldn’t talk to you after class and… Yeah, the lady had it on file.” John seems to cut himself off soon after he realizes he’s rambling.

Of course, _obvious_. But the pointless explanation has given him time to collect himself.

“And this favour?” Sherlock asks.

“Right, well, I know you’ve been helping me with chemistry, which is brilliant, but I was thinking about my other course work, and I know you’ve probably got loads of other stuff going on and—”

“What do you need help with, John?” Sherlock interrupts, surprised at John’s fumbling manner on the phone when he seems to be much more competent in person. He feels a slight thrill of power from his advantage.

“It’s just my paper for English. Shakespeare and romance, basically. I know it’s pretty simple, but all I can think about is chem and I’m having trouble narrowing my focus and I just… need a change of scenery, I guess.”

“And you want my assistance?” Sherlock asks, unable to keep still as he paces the expanse of the kitchen.

“If you don’t mind. I mean, I know you’re amazing at everything, and my mates would just end up distracting me, and I need to get this out of the way before the end of the week.”

Sherlock understands his argument, and agrees that his conclusion is correct. Knowing the people he spends his time with, they would take the opportunity to “catch up” with John rather than allow him to focus on his work. Sherlock glances at the experiment waiting on the table, which he believes has at the potential for two more days of observation… though if he were to take, say, an hour or two out of his time, the results would certainly keep.

“Alright. Tomorrow,” Sherlock answers.

“You’ll help?” 

“Yes, that is what I said.”

“Great! That’s great. Fantastic,” John rambles, and Sherlock is struck with the horrifying thought that he might push this phone call into actual conversation.

“The library after classes should suffice.”

“Yeah, sounds perfect. I’ll see you then,” John replies, and Sherlock is flooded with relief.

“Goodbye, John.”

“Bye, Sherlock. And… thanks, again.”

Sherlock snaps the phone shut before he can say anything foolish in reply, stopping any attempts John might make to push his gratitude further. He tosses his phone onto the desk, heedless of the notes he scatters but far from the microscope and petri dishes on the other side.

His immediate frustration fills the empty kitchen, hardly even used for much beyond tea and keeping substances cold when needed. He moves into the sitting room, glad of the solitude his absent mother allows him. Sitting is out of the question; Sherlock takes to pacing when his mind seems unsettled, and there is nothing more unsettling to him in this moment than John Watson.  
John, who should have been a typical, boring part of a small minority of students at St. Alfred’s – struggling to meet the academic challenges as well as the financial regimen. John, who has proven multiple times that he is much more than that – something that Sherlock cannot seem to pin down. John, who has somehow tricked Sherlock into _helping him study_ beyond the foolish requirements he was already grudgingly filling.

It was one matter for Sherlock to spend time tutoring John, assisting him in the almost futile attempts to revive his chemistry grade. But it had simply been an unmovable obstacle amongst all of the other rules Sherlock was able to bend at the institution. He had weighed the advantages and disadvantages considerably before finally deciding that a mere few hours a week was enough to sacrifice for the days he would be able to leave class early once he was in good favor with the faculty again. Not to mention the steps he was now able to take forward once he had displayed this ridiculous façade of intelligence and responsibility to them. 

But taking extra steps _outside_ of this agreement was completely incongruous to his original plan. Why had his first instinct seemed to be acceptance to help the other boy? John Watson’s presence was continuing to provoke the small warning signs he’d been recognizing in his presence: moments where Sherlock let his guard down, felt himself enjoying his time, and detected something almost akin to friendship. 

A quiet knock at the door pulls Sherlock from pursing through his thoughts; what is it about today that brings so many interruptions directly to him? He makes no move to answer the door, knowing whoever it is will most likely try to open it and find it unlocked, since they had already made it past the entryway downstairs in no doubt the same manner.

Sherlock turns to gaze out of the window, unconcerned by his visitor. A criminal would not have bothered to knock, anyway.

“Sherlock?” A quiet voice asks, and Sherlock deflates in disappointment – for what, he’s not quite sure.

“I’m sorry, the door was open downstairs and no one was answering, so I thought I’d just leave your things…” 

“Molly,” Sherlock finally answers, turning to give her a short nod in greeting. The small girl had been fascinated by him ever since he made his way into her year’s courses, though he hardly ever came to the actual classes. Still, Molly persisted in making conversation frequently when they were at the lab together, always filling him in on assignments and pointless happenings from the days prior.

Molly stands meekly in the doorway, her eyes darting around the space. She seems unsure as to whether she is allowed to enter, so Sherlock beckons her with a wave of his hand, turning once more to hide his eye roll.

“Dr. Stamford gave us some handouts yesterday during class and today as well, and I noticed you weren’t there or in the lab after, so I thought… I thought it might be nice, you know. And since that exam is coming up in a few days, I figured you’d want all of this now,” Molly says, barely stammering through her explanation of why she’d come all the way to his flat.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replies, his mind already veering toward its previous preoccupation.

“You didn’t miss much, really. I’m sure you’ll be fine to catch up, like always,” Molly continues, pulling a stack of papers from the green messenger bag on her shoulders. Sherlock doesn’t even dignify that with a response, feeling the encroaching conversation Molly would no doubt pursue if he gave her any leeway whatsoever. She sets the pile of papers on the armrest of the sofa, far from any of the other intimidating masses he has scattered about.

“Any plans for this weekend?” She asks.

“Not particularly,” Sherlock answers, knowing the more direct he is the sooner this will be over.

“No? Nothing for Valentine’s Day? I know a lot of people in our year have special plans… so…” Molly continues, a note of hope in her voice.

Ah, Valentine’s Day. He had wondered what might garner this particular weekend above others as a reason for the normally timid Molly to venture beyond her comfort zone to interact with Sherlock. His answer still stands, regardless. A pointless date on the calendar makes no difference to his lack of participation in the tedious holidays normal people seem to promote.

Molly allows the silence drag on for a few more moments, as if Sherlock will suddenly comprehend her desire to engage with him and jump at the opportunity. Sherlock is under no such illusions, and the silence hardly bothers him, though her shuffling movements are beginning to annoy him. Finally, she recognizes her cue to depart.

“Yes, well… let me know if you need anything else,” she says, slowing her steps toward the door to give him time to respond.

Sherlock offers a hum and another wave of his hand, indicating she should show herself out.

When Sherlock finally hears the door below close, he begins his pacing once more, his thoughts slowed but not completely stalled by the intrusion.

He sees clearly the two options he has at this given moment: to call and withdraw his help, or to see the arrangement through. Any other steps taken would only confirm the fears developing and substantiate his growing concern over this… thing with John. The best answer in this case must be the simplest and most straightforward in order to assure the least complications. Cancelling the meeting could result in resentment and difficulties in future sessions. Therefore, simply assisting John in what would no doubt be an exceedingly simple task could do no harm to the situation.

Satisfied with his conclusion, Sherlock moves back into the kitchen to return to his previous work now that his mind is at least settled on this one matter. The larger issue of John Watson as a whole, on the other hand, he knows is an experiment with compromised elements and unreliable results. He’ll need more data on the subject if he’s to make any sense of it, and he consoles himself with the knowledge that tomorrow will provide exactly that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm... so I suck at promises. Well, I suck at time management. I procrastinated, and then 221b con approached, and then it happened... BUT (butts) the wonderful people and environment there inspired me to keep writing. I did promise a new chapter on Monday and hey look it's still Monday in my time zone!
> 
> I've added another chapter (I'm sorry) because these two crazies just love talking to each other and fretting over their feelings.
> 
> The next chapter will be the last two study sessions, and we will see the Valentine's gift giving! And I will try very, very, very hard to write it much faster this time. Real life is kinda crazy, ya know? Feel free to bug me (I love comments) if I slack off again.
> 
> You are all beautiful snowflakes.
> 
> Oh, I should probably apologize to any Shakespearean experts? I only pretend to know what I'm talking about, and I mostly relied on google. I just have this headcanon that this teenage Sherlock is a Shakespeare buff and cute things happened...

##### February 4

John spends his brief walk and train ride to school that day trying to pretend that he didn’t use most of his time this morning agonizing over what to wear, knowing he would be seeing Sherlock later. It wasn’t as though he had many choices, considering the few pieces of their standard uniform he actually owned. And it wasn’t as though Sherlock hadn’t seen him in all of it already, and he wouldn’t even notice really, and—

It’s a miracle he doesn’t walk straight into the double doors in front of him; instead he stumbles into a random person who’s slowed before him.

“Sorry,” John mumbles, giving his head a shake and walking past the disgruntled boy.

His extended morning routine has made him later than usual today, so he barely has time to stop at his locker before heading to his first course. As he settles into his usual seat, already glancing at the slow moving clock, he realizes that this morning will be the only thing that’s rushed today.

He doesn’t understand exactly what it is about this study session that’s putting him on edge, but it feels different. Not only are they meeting outside of their usual sessions, but it’s under special circumstances, especially where Sherlock is concerned. John had been mostly expecting him to claim that he was busy; he’d been counting on it, really. After seeking help from Sherlock and finding none, he would’ve resorted to calling one of his mates or parsed through it alone.

But Sherlock had surprised him and accepted. And now… John _wants_ to see him. He wants to talk to him outside of the chemistry room, outside of the comfort zone they’ve established. After everything that had begun ruminating in his head since the talk of Valentine’s Day, John was both looking forward to and dreading more time with this incredibly strange boy. What if everything that he’s been feeling is completely nonsensical? It wouldn’t be the first time an infatuation of his had been one sided. And then, of course, there’s the slight possibility of it not being unrequited. What would that mean, and what the hell would John do about it?

#### 

\------------------------

Sherlock doesn’t realize he’s half an hour early to their study session in the library until he glares at the clock nearby with the intent of noting how late John is. It shouldn’t make sense, considering the last class of the day hasn’t even ended; but Sherlock hadn’t been wasting his time with courses today. There was an important experiment he was working on in the lab. It had only taken fifteen minutes to take sufficient notes for what the professor would be rambling about in his English course, and his work had already been handed in for the week in everything else.

Somehow, he’d found himself finishing the measurements on his experiment with fungus quickly, making his way to the library in haste without knowing for sure what the time had truly been. The halls were blessedly quiet and empty; he finds the library in a similar state. 

He decides then that it was his intent all along to avoid the end-of-school rush - that’s why he’s so early. Satisfied with his own rationalization, he settles back into the chair to organize a few things in his mind palace - a memory technique he’d recently learned about, in one of his agonizing moments of boredom when he resorted to looting through Mycroft’s things that he’d left behind from uni in neatly stacked boxes. His brother kept few sentimental items, so what remained simply consisted of books and articles he’d already found use for. Or memorized.

He’s just about to delve into his deconstruction of the infamous Hamlet speech when he hears footsteps approaching, signaling John Watson’s arrival. His face slips into something of a smile before he rights himself, his blank mask taking its place.

John stumbles into view, looking both impeccable and ruffled in the cream jumper that he favors. He does nothing to hide the wide grin that’s crowded his features, Sherlock notes.

“Sherlock,” John says by way of greeting, sliding into the chair across from him at the desk he’s claimed for them.

“Thanks for coming,” he continues, pulling a tattered notebook and English text from his bag. “I briefly considered asking Anderson for help, but decided I should take my chances with you first.”

“No,” Sherlock grimaces. “You wouldn’t have had much success with Anderson.”

“He’s not all that bad,” John replies playfully, but the look on Sherlock’s face quiets him quickly.

They sit for a split second too long like that, sharing the beginning of some secret joke. Sherlock breaks away as John’s face colors, seeking solace in the pages of his notebook.

“Right… the paper. We have to pick a play and analyze the main tropes that Shakespeare uses to illustrate or encourage romance,” John explains.

“I know. I wrote it last week,” Sherlock says.

“Last—” John begins, stopping to look back up at Sherlock. “We didn’t even get the assignment until this Monday.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock replies, leaving it at that.

Thankfully, John doesn’t question him further. Whether it’s because he figured it out on his own or because he knows Sherlock will be annoyed in answering, Sherlock ignores as unessential data.

John shuffles through his papers once more, as though he’s struggling with what to say next.

“Shakespeare, romance,” Sherlock begins, sitting forward. “It practically writes itself, John. Which play have you chosen?”

John seems to relax immediately once Sherlock shows interest in the activity.

“That’s the thing. I haven’t even picked one yet; all I can focus on is chemistry. I just keep worrying about my grades in that course and I’ve been putting this off. I know once I sit down and start writing…”

“You’ll finish it quickly, and it will no longer bother you,” Sherlock finishes for him.

John nods. Sherlock reaches over to pull the book from his grasp.

“Then let’s get started,” Sherlock says as he flips through the pages quickly.

“Most of my class is writing about Romeo and Juliet,” John starts to explain.

“Obvious.”

“Exactly. I want it to be a little more interesting, not just something I could pull off the internet.”

Sherlock thumbs through the pages until he lands on the play he’d been looking for.

“Hamlet?” He asks, not hoping for much.

John actually laughs, a deep, surprising thing that perhaps echoes too loudly in the large library.

“That’s an excellent one, for sure. But maybe not the best choice for the romantic elements, Sherlock.”

“It would present a challenge,” Sherlock explains.

“No,” John chuckles, leaning forward to knock on the book. “Try again.”

“It at least has a few interesting murders,” Sherlock grumbles as he resumes his search.

John does his best to read the words at the top of the pages as they flash by, flicking his hand out at the last moment to halt the blur of paper.

“There,” John says. “What about this one?”

“Much Ado About Nothing?” Sherlock reads.

“Yeah. It’s got romance, humor, even a bit of double-crossing and intrigue,” John says.

“It’s not the worst choice,” Sherlock relents. “Though the motives of the antagonist are so blatant throughout the play, it’s a wonder all of the characters don’t—”

“Alright, we get it,” John interrupts, patting his arm. “You’re brilliant. Even more brilliant than Shakespeare.”

Sherlock stares after him in surprise; it’s certainly not the first compliment John has bestowed on him, but each one catches him off guard as John says them with increasing ease. Sherlock studies his face while he’s allowed with John’s attention now focused on jotting down important character’s names into his notebook: the tiny crinkles near his eyes where prominent laugh lines will no doubt form in the years to come, the smooth complexion that hasn’t experienced the roughness of age or prolonged hours in the sun and extreme weather, the stark blue eyes that hold something behind them Sherlock can’t quite identify yet. It both fascinates and frustrates him. All of these things accentuating this boy who has become this _something_ in his life – though he had not anticipated it at all.

“So I think the whole ‘reluctant love’ between Beatrice and Benedick is worth talking about,” John says, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts.

“Hm,” Sherlock agrees, adorning a complacent expression before John looks up at him.

“It’s kind of endearing, I think,” John muses, a smile blooming.

“The twisted course of their forced relationship?” Sherlock asks.

“No! Oh come on, it’s not forced. They’re obviously flirting with each other under most of that arguing,” John says.

“It takes false notes and trickery to coerce them into their all-too-convenient pairing,” Sherlock continues, feeling a rant about the tediousness of romance and sentiment brewing.

“Oh, false notes and trickery. That’s good,” John remarks, jotting more notes down on his slowly filling paper.

“You have to see the beauty in it, though,” John continues when he looks back at Sherlock over the table.

“Of course - the destined lovers, the perfectly resolved happy ending, double wedding…” Sherlock rambles, rolling his eyes.

“Well, sure. All of that. But the two of them, coming together though they do their best to do the exact opposite. Each from different situations and with differing opinions, but finding happiness after a bit of careful planning,” John replies.

“Like I said, forced relationship,” Sherlock states, taking the book from John in the hopes of ending the argument so they can move on to another subject.

“You’re wrong,” John says sternly, though there’s still a playful smirk on his face. He tugs the book back over to his side. “They may be slightly hesitant, but it’s through the new circumstances that they’re able to realize the feelings that were already there.”

John returns to scribbling in his notebook, but Sherlock jumps when he feels a foot brush against his for the briefest moment. It could only have been John, but he remains absorbed in his writing. Sherlock feels his face turn red, glancing around library for something, anything, to divert his thoughts. Why had John been so adamant about that particular relationship? The only clear answer was that he saw something of importance within those two characters, and Sherlock couldn’t miss the connection between the circumstances they currently found themselves in.

Ridiculous. It was all ridiculous. An unnecessary situation full of emotions that would only work to cloud his mind. In fact, they were distracting him in this very moment, pulling his thoughts away from this simpler matter at hand.

“But you’re not interested in any of that nonsense, right?” John asks, half-joking, though Sherlock doesn’t miss the real inquiry behind his eyes. “I mean, tragic love stories and all that. I’m surprised you know so much, honestly.”

“The fact that I have an interest in chemistry and scientific matters doesn’t mean I completely disregard literature. Much of what Shakespeare and other notable authors wrote are excellent studies on human character. It’s the drivel that’s written today that I don’t waste my time with,” Sherlock bit back, unable to hide the hurt in his tone.

“Hey, that’s not what I meant,” John tries to explain. “I was just shocked to see that you could cram any more information in that vast brain of yours.”

Sherlock seems unable to stop himself, eager to prove himself brilliant in this area as well.

“Perhaps a more interesting relationship between two Shakespearean characters would be Antonio and Bassanio,” he continues, earning that cherished look of surprise from John. “An argument can be made in either direction, depending on which side you choose to take. It would make your paper much stronger and infinitely more interesting, as all of the obvious cues of a heterosexual relationship are essentially removed.”

“Uh, what play are they from?”

“The Merchant of Venice,” Sherlock answers, watching John’s reaction carefully.

“Oh,” John mumbles, looking back to the text before him.

An odd feeling comes over Sherlock, as though John’s disappointed reaction has hurt him in some odd way. He needs to understand more.

“If that’s something that seems distasteful to you, John, you can just state it plainly,” Sherlock says carefully.

“What? No, it’s fine,” John replies, looking slightly bewildered.

“Of course,” Sherlock nods.

“Why, does it seem distasteful to you?” John asks.

“No. Why would it?” Sherlock replies, thrown off by this new turn in the conversation.

“I dunno,” John says with the tiniest lilt in his mouth. “I’ve never seen you around with any girls, so…”

“It’s… not really--," Sherlock starts. 

"Your area. Yeah, I remember," John interrupts. 

How had John turned this on him? It had been a question for John, to provoke a reaction and gather information. His hands begin to move of their own accord.

“Not that I—well, it’s fine and…” Sherlock tries to find some semblance of logic in their conversation and comes up with nothing. John reaches across the table to still Sherlock’s gesticulating limbs, smiling as though the situation is amusing.

“Sherlock, you’re an idiot,” he says, and now he’s actually laughing.

“I—what?” Sherlock begins.

“I’m not uncomfortable with it. You of all people should know that. Well, you and maybe one or two others,” John explains.

And before Sherlock can formulate a response – should he apologize? Why is John’s hand going away? – John is smirking at him.

“I just haven’t read that one. We were supposed to read it over break, and I nearly flunked that test.”

Sherlock nods quickly, glancing at the various shelves and items that surround them in the hopes of talking about literally _anything else_. His attempt at gaining the upper hand had failed miserably.

“Eavesdropping.”

“What?” John asks.

“A trope used in uniting the couples, at least for Beatrice and Benedick,” Sherlock explains, his blank mask back in place.

“Right,” John replies, beginning a new line on his paper.

The rest of the session moves quickly, with John mentioning a possible point of discussion and Sherlock either dismissing or approving it. It also helps that Sherlock seems to easily recall the act and scene numbers for most of the quotes that John uses to support his arguments, cutting down their work time by a half.

After only a few hours, John has a substantial rough draft in his terrible handwriting worked out in his notebook. Sherlock is vaguely aware that their time has passed too quickly and raised even more questions regarding… whatever it is that’s happening to him.

With a displeased expression, Sherlock stands to gather himself and don his coat once more. John stands as well, stuffing his books back into his bag and mustering up some kind of polite farewell.

“Well, thanks for helping me out, Sherlock. This is a huge thing I can take off my already gigantic pile of shite,” John says with a chuckle.

“Happy to help, John,” Sherlock replies blandly.

He looks up at John and freezes when the other boy is considering him with some sort of expression… one could even say it appears _fond_. John reaches his hand out and it comes perilously close to Sherlock’s face. He’s about to flinch away in panic when he feels the collar of his coat being pulled out and straightened to it’s rightful position.

“Admit it,” John says, and Sherlock’s heart might actually stop in his chest, he can’t be sure. “You only came because you know I’ll be able to focus more on my chemistry work now. You’re just hoping to make yourself look better when I end the term with a higher grade.”

“Ah, you’ve discovered my true motive, then,” Sherlock replies, his voice rougher than he intended.

“Wouldn’t take a genius to figure it out,” John replies, and Sherlock can’t miss the double meaning behind their sarcasm. “I’ll see you Friday, Sherlock.”

And then John actually _winks_ at him before he slings his bag over his shoulder and struts out of the library. It isn’t until a full minute later that Sherlock registers he’s been standing in the same spot with his bloody mouth nearly hanging open, staring after John fucking Watson.

Sherlock pulls himself together, spinning on his heel to leave through the exit on the other side of the library. It would be best to avoid John as much as possible now. If there had been anything he learned from this experience, it was that John Watson was proving to be not at all what he had expected, and worse - a potential hazard to everything he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you with hugs and kisses and tea goes to Mackenzie and Megan ([parvumnix](http://parvumnix.tumblr.com/) and [hereforthehiddles](http://hereforthehiddles.tumblr.com/)) for being my betas and support group.
> 
> An extra special thank you to the amazing B ([unknownsister](http://unknownsister.tumblr.com/)) who got my arse writing again with her enthusiasm and AWESOMENESS. She's a beautiful, silly goose and I adore her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT ISSSS FINALLY?!???!! 
> 
> Wow. I apologize for taking an inexcusable amount of time. It's been a crazy year, folks, and if you've stuck around for the end of this, I am exceedingly grateful.
> 
> No more "exchanges" for me until I can learn to properly manage my time. But!!!! It is complete, it is here, and it is before Christmas, as promised. 
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd (unbetaed??), which is partly the reason it has taken this long. I did my best to read back through, let it sit for a day, and edit some more before posting. Please let me know of any glaring errors and I would be much obliged!
> 
> Here we go... at long last...

##### February 7

John finds himself in the chemistry lab before Sherlock, anxiously waiting on the moment when that ridiculously dramatic coat will sweep into the room. Their time together in the library had gone much better than he’d anticipated: he found it easy to fall into interesting conversations with Sherlock, not needing to wade through the social intricacies other people expected. He’d forgotten his worries about his grades, the situation with his friends… it had disappeared within minutes of their session. 

Sherlock had a way of making even the most ordinary activities fresh and exciting, just with the way he approached them. He was different from anyone John had ever known, and he found himself craving the unconventional air that followed Sherlock. 

As if summoned by his rambling thoughts, Sherlock walks briskly into the room, shedding his coat to lay it on the chair next to John.

“Hello,” John says warmly.

“John,” Sherlock replies as a way of greeting, adding a curt nod. He takes his stance in front of the table, much as he had on their first session. John’s eyebrows crease in confusion.

“Don’t you want to sit?” He asks.

“Standing, moving about – it’s much better for the mental process,” Sherlock explains, not bothering to look at John while he speaks.

“Sure. But do you really want to be doing that for the entire hour?” John asks, beckoning Sherlock to the chair close to his side, pulling it out from under the table to tempt him.

Sherlock eyes the seat and the tiny expanse of space between the position and John’s right side as though it’s his mortal enemy. He ignores the offer.

“I would like to discuss the timing of our sessions, John,” Sherlock explains, slowly turning as his feet carry him a few steps away.

“Discuss away, professor,” John replies sarcastically. He’s a bit disheartened when Sherlock completely disregards the comment, but it wouldn’t be the first time a jibe has gone over his head.

“I began an intricate analysis last night of your progress over these past few weeks in correlation with your grades and our sessions. Your marks are improving at an alarming rate,” Sherlock says.

“Well, yeah. That tends to happen when one has a brilliant genius helping them along. I couldn’t have improved without you, Sherlock,” John replies. Sherlock’s step falters just slightly, though his gaze has transferred to his feet.

“Agreed,” Sherlock answers after a second of contemplation. John gives a short chuckle in response; he really shouldn’t be surprised at this point, given Sherlock’s reaction to compliments in the past.

“Unfortunately the rate of your advancement is too rapid,” Sherlock continues.

“…What?” John asks.

“At some point in the near future, perhaps as soon as two weeks from now, Dr. Stamford will deem our sessions successful and their purpose served,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, well, I should hope so. I’ve been working my arse off. Why are you saying all of this like it’s a bad thing?” John asks.

“They will wrongly assume our work is finished once your grade is raised to a sufficient level,” Sherlock replies.

“And… it’s not? I’m confused here, Sherlock,” John says.

“There is still a substantial risk that your grade may fall once more when our time together comes to an end,” Sherlock explains, facing John but looking somewhere to his left.

“Our time together…” John mutters, and for a moment he thinks he might be going crazy. What exactly is Sherlock getting at? He can’t even catch his eye to get a better read on what’s happening.

“I would like to propose an indefinite extension, and a shortening of our sessions to make it more convenient, should that be necessary. A standing appointment once a week for the rest of the year,” Sherlock declares.

“Sherlock, as long as you’re willing to help me, I can just tell you when I’m having trouble. Wouldn’t that work?” John asks.

“Use your brain, John! Once your grades drop, it will no doubt be too late,” Sherlock explains, flinging his hands about in frustration.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to tell when I need to study more. I’m not completely incompetent,” John says.

“No. It won’t work,” Sherlock growls between gritted teeth.

“It’s been working just fine for me nearly my whole life, mate,” John retorts. 

“And obviously it’s not enough, John,” Sherlock replies

“What is it that you want, Sherlock?” John asks, becoming frustrated with their back-and-forth. It’s getting them nowhere.

“More time!” Sherlock exclaims, glancing up at him for just a brief second before shifting away once more. What John sees there surprises him – panic, nervousness, and fear.

“More time,” John repeats, beginning to understand. Sherlock clears his throat and seems to make an effort to collect himself. The pacing resumes.

“Yes, for you, obviously. You need… sustained simulation and guidance to achieve the optimum result,” Sherlock explains.

“So you want our sessions to be shorter?” John asks, needling him just a little.

“Well, yes. To make them more frequent,” Sherlock explains.

“Mhmm,” John hums in response.

“And a standing appointment,” Sherlock insists, indicating toward John, who’s donned a smug expression. “One that I expect you to attend regularly. That is essential.”

Realization dawns, finally.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John says, leaning casually over the table toward him. “Are you saying you want to spend more time with me?”

Sherlock freezes.

“For… it’s the—” Sherlock begins.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want our study sessions to end, so you’re making sure they don’t,” John continues, emboldened by Sherlock’s adorable fumbling.

Sherlock begins looking frantically around the room, and John is suddenly very aware that he may just run away. He has to take advantage of this opportunity, especially as it seems he’s caught the normally cautious boy off-guard.

“You like me, don’t you,” John says.

“Well I… I-- I find your company tolerable,” Sherlock hastens to answer.

“No, it’s not just that. You wouldn’t want to see more of me unless it was something else. Sherlock, c’mon. Look at me,” John pleads, desperate to see his face and find some form of honesty there.

Sherlock sucks in a quiet breath before looking toward John, finally holding his stare. John’s gaze roams freely over Sherlock’s features, taking in the small blotches of red blooming on his cheeks and the vulnerability in his eyes. Sherlock’s next words seem more calm and collected, though the slight tremble in his features doesn’t disappear completely.

“I believe an increased number of sessions will be beneficial for you. Do you agree?” Sherlock asks in an obvious attempt to downplay the conversation.

“Okay,” John says with an affectionate smile.

“A standing appointment?” 

“Alright,” John agrees.

Sherlock simply gazes at him then, unsure how to proceed as his plan had been met with full enthusiasm. John rises from his seat carefully, making his way around the table to lean just on the edge.

“I like spending time with you, Sherlock. I think you’re brilliant, and you have an amazing ability of making all of this,” John gestures to the books and the room around him. “Much more exciting than it really is. You had to know that I would jump at the chance to make my course work more interesting for the rest of the year as well.”

“I… just assumed you would consider my offer to tutor you further,” Sherlock admits, still treading carefully.

“Oh sure,” John chuckles. “Study together, write papers, whatever you want to call it. But Sherlock… honestly, I’d study the brim of some old hat if it meant I could see more of that brain of yours do what it does.”

For a moment, John is absolutely terrified he’s said too much; that he’s said the wrong thing and not understood that Sherlock really was just talking about schoolwork. 

…Or that he _did_ see past all of that studying bollocks, but ruined the only opportunity he’d ever have to talk about it by scaring Sherlock away with his stark confession.

And then Sherlock’s mouth pulls up into a tiny smirk, and the fear in his eyes shifts into something like admiration.

“The brim of a hat, John? What good would that do,” Sherlock says, striding past John to take his seat behind the table.

“I’m sure you could get some ridiculous conclusion from it,” John replies, turning to watch as Sherlock pulls out John’s customary chair next to him.

“Hmm… perhaps,” Sherlock considers. “But in lieu of clothing accessories, why don’t we take a look at some chemical reactions instead.”

John smiles in response; taking the seat he offers and cracking open the worn pages of his notebook.

The session passes quickly as Sherlock watches over John’s shoulder while he completes his homework, even having time to look over an old exam when that’s finished. John finds himself smiling and laughing in general more than he has in weeks; even this time spent with Sherlock – which is always considerably more enjoyable than hours spent in school – is more brilliant than usual. John feels a sense of lightness somewhere in his chest, like a small weight that had been there is gone. 

Now that he knows there isn’t such a stringent deadline on his time with Sherlock, it feels easier to enjoy himself. It makes him a bit braver, too. He let’s his gaze linger on the sharp features of Sherlock’s face, the quick and precise movement of his lips. It goes far beyond listening attentively to what his tutor is explaining, and of course the brilliant boy notices. John enjoys the red plume his cheeks adopt as much as anything else. 

“…because all of the good ones _Argon_. Get it?” John chuckles, waiting for the recognition to show on Sherlock’s face.

Instead, he receives a truly epic eye roll.

“Oh come on,” John leans over and nudges Sherlock’s bony shoulder with his arm, staying close to study Sherlock’s features in case he cracks a smile.

“Really, John. Absolutely ridiculous,” Sherlock says, but his lips are quivering, just a little.

John nudges him again, nearly crawling on top of the table when Sherlock tries to turn the other direction.

“You think it’s funny, don’t you?” John pesters.

“No.” 

“Yes you do… I see a smile… right there!” John is beaming like an idiot, and probably looking like one too, but Sherlock Holmes is blushing again and he couldn’t really care about anything else.

“Oh please,” Sherlock tries to scoff, but as soon as he looks at John’s eager smile, his composure cracks.

“Ha!” John exclaims in triumph.

Sherlock finally allows his laughter to flow freely with John soon joining in. It feels buoyant and perfect, leaning close together and sharing some ridiculous joke.

It isn’t until Sherlock glances up at the clock across the room that the atmosphere is broken.

“Ah, John, I apologize,” he begins. “It seems we’ve gone a half hour over our usual time.”

“Oh, have we?” John checks the clock, and of course Sherlock is correct, down to the minute.

Sherlock begins gathering the papers and books around them, though most of them are John’s anyway. John makes a halfhearted attempt to help, but he feels like dragging out this moment as long as he can.

He watches as Sherlock goes about straightening a stack of papers, completely enamored.

“Looking forward to next week, then?” He asks.

For a brief instant, John has the amazing privilege of watching Sherlock genuinely smile – an eye-crinkling, heart-warming smile that he will endeavor to keep in his memory for as long as he possibly can.

It’s only for a second and then it’s gone, though there’s something like happiness lingering in Sherlock’s eyes when he turns with a mischievous smirk to John.

“Another hour full of thrilling chemistry? I think of little else,” he replies.

“No, I mean, are you looking forward to the fourteenth?” John asks.

“Isn’t that what you just said? Really, John, even I am able to comprehend the elusive addition of one week to the current day,” Sherlock says.

John is about to explain – doesn’t Sherlock know they’ll be seeing each other on Valentine’s Day? After school, with the entire weekend ahead? – but something in him decides against it. 

And just like that, he has the beginnings of a plan.

“Right, that’s what I meant,” John says, packing the rest of his shabby notebooks into his backpack.

“What about you, then?” Sherlock asks, and John can’t help but notice the nervous tone he’s suddenly adopted. “Perhaps it seems less appealing, now that I’ve forced you through and extra thirty minutes of grueling study.”

“Not at all,” John replies. Feeling bold, he reaches over and places his hand on Sherlock’s knee and gives it a quick squeeze. “I don’t mind.”

Sherlock sputters something in response, his face doing some combination of utter shock and confusion. John stands, walking towards the door, riding the high of their fruitful time together. His hand feels warm and almost tingles.

“I think of little else, you know,” he says with a grin before turning and leaving through the door behind him.

With a quick glance behind, he sees that smile again on Sherlock’s face and he just knows that next Friday will be absolutely _brilliant_.

#### 

\------------------------

##### February 14

Sherlock Holmes isn’t fooling anyone if he thought that he could act as though today was simply a normal day… but if Sherlock could fool anyone, it would certainly be himself.

It was just another Friday. The last of the week before he would be released for two glorious days without the impediment of course work (tedious), professors (useless), and other students (irrelevant).

But he had dressed in his best uniform slacks and a shirt that perhaps… if one were paying attention (he definitely wasn’t), one would notice it had gained particularly agreeable attention from John Watson.

And if he’d spent more time making sure his curls lay in just the right configuration this morning, no one would be able to prove it.

It was simply another day of going through the motions at this institution, avoiding other students in general and keeping to himself as much as possible.

His first stop that morning was unfortunately his locker, which he attempted to leave unused most of the time. But he’d left a particular text describing an experiment he wished to alter over the weekend, so he grudgingly made his way through the throngs of students rushing to their various destinations.

As soon as he reaches his locker, he knows that its been tampered with. The handle, which was already of a deplorable quality, had been nearly pulled free of the screws which held it to the door – it had been like that when it was assigned to him at the beginning of the year. Sherlock would make sure to leave it askew at a particular angle to ensure he always knew if anyone had been looking through his things. 

The combination lock wasn’t on the number he’d left it last – rather, it was at the right position for someone to have apprehended his code and locked it behind them, turning it just past the last number of his personal sequence.

A careful examination of his periphery shows no onlookers, which reduces the chance that it could be a prank or rudimentary booby trap inside. But what else could it be?

The possibilities fan out through his mind, but he knows it’s impossible to narrow it down without more information. No other option in sight, Sherlock makes quick work of the lock and tentatively opens the door, stepping slightly out of the way – just as an extra precaution.

Nearly 10 seconds pass without any explosions or unfamiliar substances, so Sherlock steps forward and examines the contents.

The first glaring anomaly is a strangely wrapped parcel sitting atop of his stack of books. It takes a large amount of willpower not to reach for the mysterious object and inspect it immediately; instead, he looks carefully through the limited amount of space remaining.

Nothing seems to have been shifted or removed in the slightest. It looks as though someone unlocked the locker, placed the item inside, and left without further tampering. Curious.

Sherlock reached for the parcel, shabbily but completely wrapped in red tissue paper. It feels like… well, Sherlock knows what it feels like, but his logic battles against it. He can also detect a note tapped to the bottom, but it’s within the wrapping. 

“Well, the freak got his first gift, then,” a sneering voice declares from his right.

Sherlock turns, and there’s Anderson with half of his lanky body draped over Sally. She’s carrying a heart shaped box along with her school bag, and both of them look particularly annoying today. 

“Anderson, just leave it,” Sally chides, and Sherlock is surprised for a second, but decides not to comment. 

Anderson makes some sort of noise, but Sherlock could care less. He’s unwrapping the… gift, and it is indeed what he surmised through touch alone. A skull.

“Ha, fucking odd. Suits you,” Anderson manages before Sally drags him away finally, half-heartedly poking him in the side.

The note comes first, before his theories begin to develop: “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”

A Hamlet quote? Well, that explains the strange item in his hand, but hardly lends more of an indication as to _why_ they chose it, or who put it there.

The handwriting isn’t one he recognizes, nor does it prove familiar against some of the samplings from his fellow students that he has memorized.

As the multitude of bodies in the halls begin to lessen, Sherlock decides that this mystery will be a fine source of entertainment for the typically ineffective stimulation found here.

He closes his locker and twists the dial to a new sequence, in case the perpetrator decides to revisit this particular scene. 

His day continues while his mind is occupied with this exciting, new dilemma.

The easy entry into his locker, the wrapping, the note… it suggests someone familiar and well meaning, but Sherlock has no friends here. If he goes outside the boundaries of the school, and discounts family members, a few of the homeless teens on the streets he’s come to assist in return for a few favors come to mind. But they’d have no way to gain access here, nor a reason to interact with him – especially for this outlandish gift.

Anderson’s particular choice of words stand out as well: _first_ gift. Implying that there’s more to come. But Anderson is a terrible source of information; why would he be getting multiple gifts? He brings up a mental calendar. It’s not his birthday, nor is it Christmas, Easter, or any other religious nonsense.

It’s when he’s on his way to the lunchroom that he finally realizes. Valentine’s Day.

Idiot.

There are hearts and winged angels everywhere, flowers and roses and every other iteration of sentimental romantic symbolism. It seems as though the uniform policy is lax today, with many students sporting some form of red or pink on their outfits. Couples are linked by the arm or engaging in displays of affection in the corners of the halls where they think they won’t be seen.

But today, of all holidays – why would Sherlock be receiving gifts? Surely this must be an elaborate prank meant to fool him into thinking someone has a romantic attachment. It’s a terrible attempt – he could care less, and the “gifts” he’ll either keep (if they’re useful) or throw away. 

Slightly bothersome, but not detrimental to his health, mental or physical.

Taking a seat in his customary corner table near the bins – typically avoided, but the smell doesn’t bother him – Sherlock delves into his thoughts, tuning out the general babble and discord around him.

Just as he’s going through his mental catalogue of Anderson and discounting him as a suspect (limited abilities, lack of attention to detail, lack of motivation…), he’s disturbed by a voice.

“Sherlock?” A quite speaker utters.

Sherlock’s eyes snap to attention and takes in the sight of Molly Hooper standing next to him. She looks embarrassed and hesitant, but it’s not the typical hindrance she bears from her unfounded interest in him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you,” she starts, glancing around at the table but coming up short when the search proves Sherlock has no lunch, book, or item to attribute to his concentration.

“What is it, Molly?” Sherlock asks. Best to get directly to it.

“I have this for you,” She says, a small smile blooming on her face.

Another parcel wrapped in the same manner and in identical paper, though this is rectangular shaped. So: in a box and impossible to tell what’s inside just by feel.

Sherlock takes the gift from her, quirking one eyebrow up in obvious question. She immediately reddens.

“Oh, no—it’s not—I—” She stammers. “I’m not allowed to say who they’re from. But it’s not me.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock says, looking down at the object. Now that it’s in his hands, he feels how light it is. Is there even anything inside? Is this meant to be the pinnacle of the joke – a gift in the lunchroom, for all to see, his disappointment the entertainment?

Sherlock begins unwrapping while Molly looks on. He stops when the thin box is revealed underneath, holding the note placed on top in his hand, but not reading it yet. He looks back up at her.

“Oh sorry! I’ll just—” she mutters, scampering off in the direction of the door. Unfortunately, she leaves the room directly; Sherlock had hardly expected her to return immediately to the gift-giver, possibly watching nearby, but he had considered the notion.

The box opens easily, and within resides a cloth soaked in… yes, that’s definitely blood. It’s a blood soaked handkerchief.

Sherlock opens the note, which this time reads: “And to that youth he calls his Rosalind, he sends this bloody napkin.”

Another Shakespeare quote. Not surprising, yet still unhelpful. Sherlock’s somewhat extensive knowledge of Shakespeare cannot be known to anyone here. His reading is done at home, and he neither advertises this nor does he bring any of the texts with him to school. 

It would be impossible to surmise this knowledge just from his appearance, so it would take quite a matter of conversation before he alluded to that quality of his character at all.

He returns his attention back to the handkerchief.

The blood is dry, and there isn’t a copious amount. The volume here suggests a simple cut or scrape. The cloth is a plain white, slightly yellowed where it’s not red – an heirloom, possibly. No initials or stitching to indicate its owner. Cotton material. It smells of laundry detergent, blood, and… grass? Yes, there’s a faint earthy smell that could be grass, though there is no stain of green or brown to confirm that fact.

Sherlock folds the handkerchief and the note together, placing them in his pocket. He stands, taking the box and tissue paper back to his locker where the skull and its wrapping still reside. At least this item he can carry around with him to examine further.

Perhaps he can use the lab to—ah, dammit. It’s after lunch, so the chemistry lab will be in use by other classes until the end of the day. Then he and John—

Christ, he’d been so distracted by this new intrigue that his nervous thoughts of John and they’re session today had completely shifted in priority.

Suddenly the end of the day looms before him, and a churning begins in his stomach. Will John ask him about the gifts? Will he laugh at him? Or worse, will John go on about his own romantic dalliances that have no doubt flourished today? Surely someone with his social connections and charisma has some type of date to look forward to tonight.

Sherlock halts that train of thought, before he gets too carried away. That is a matter to address later, after his time with John is finished and when he can retreat to the privacy of his room. He can analyze everything in peace there.

For now, he has to make a quick stop in his English Literature class. Since the Shakespeare essay has been handed in, they’ll receive a new assignment today. Once that’s announced, he can escape to the relatively empty library and spend the rest of the day studying these quotes, the connection with the gifts, and surmising their origin.

He makes it to his class and leaves without ceremony or questioning – perks of having blackmail on the teacher leading the class. 

He enters the library and makes his way directly to the black armchair hidden in a distant corner. He frequents this spot when he needs quiet to organize his thoughts or peruse the few useful books to be found here.

He’s in the midst of calculating the possibilities of different students attaining his locker code when Sherlock receives a surprising text.

_I’ll see you in a bit in the chemistry lab, then? –John_

Interesting. John’s never texted him before, and certainly never checked with him about any of their other sessions. Sherlock glances at the time; it’s nearly the end of the day, anyway. Why would he bother?

_Of course. –SH_

Sherlock stares down at the handkerchief and notes spread before him on the table next to him, willing them to give him the answer. 

His phone buzzes again.

_Brilliant. Cheers. –John_

Sherlock sighs, pocketing the phone and his items. There’s nothing for it but to head over toward the lab, now that all he can think about is John Watson and the conundrum he presents. It seems as though two texts is enough to completely obliterate any productivity.

The reason for that is certainly a mystery that will take much longer than a few hours in the library.

The halls are beginning to fill with students, most in a rush to leave the school as soon as possible. Sherlock avoids them, some annoyingly laden with new gifts or cards that they feel the obligation to preen and flaunt over. Dull.

Sherlock quickens his pace; he needn’t worry about these people anymore, because for the next hour, he and John will be talking of—

Sherlock immediately stops in the doorway to the lab and has many thoughts in a very small span of time.

There sits John Watson, staring in near fury at the clock at the front of the room. He hasn’t noticed Sherlock yet, which gives time for Sherlock to see the package in his lap. 

It’s long and red, wrapped in the same paper as his previous gifts.

There are two possibilities.

The first is that John has been tasked with giving him another one of his gifts. The problem with this is that whoever had been giving him gifts at school would most likely make their appearance at the end of the day, if they wished to make themselves known at all. But that would only work in part to support the second possibility…

…which is that John has been the person behind the gifts the entire time.

And of course, now that the Shakespeare references and nature of the gifts themselves is reflected in Sherlock’s head once more, he realizes how _obvious_ this has been. Idiot, idiot, idiot!

He makes some kind of noise in his (now gaping) mouth at this realization, and John immediately turns.

“Sherlock! You’re a bit early,” he says, a wide smile that should definitely be illegal engulfing his face. No one has ever looked that happy to see Sherlock. He never wants it to go away.

John stands nervously, holding the package in his hands.

“I, um… I guess you’ve figured it out by now,” he says. “I’m sure you figured it out with the first one. You’re pretty incredible like that.”

Sherlock has found himself still unable to speak. He’s only just now managed to close his mouth properly. John is taking small steps toward him.

“Well, this is the last one here. I’m sorry if the gifts were… well, it was hard to find things I thought you’d like, really, and my sister gave me the idea. Well she started me thinking about something we both talked about, that we had in common, I guess. Which was chemistry, of course, and—oh christ. Here,” John shoves the box forward, holding it out until Sherlock’s hands finally listen to him and take the box.

The paper is unwrapped carefully to reveal a long, slim box. When Sherlock opens the box and sees flowers, John immediately begins to explain.

“So, I know you don’t particularly like the romance in Romeo and Juliet, but I thought the whole poison aspect was right up your alley,” he rambles. “See, the flowers, they’re—”

“Foxglove,” Sherlock says, finally recognizing the curious shape.

“Yeah,” John says. “I thought it might be interesting, you know, because I can’t really—I couldn’t just buy poison, and—well, I’d thought about doing the whole knife bit, but then I had this whole scenario of bringing a knife to school stuck in my head and ruled that one out pretty quickly,” John gives a breathy laugh.

Sherlock looks down at the flowers, listening to the beautiful sound of John Watson actually _being nervous_ and it’s because of _him_ and he just cannot believe any of this is happening.

Sherlock moves his hands from the wrapping to inspect the contents when the note flutters to the floor.

“Oh, right, there’s that. I forgot, I thought it was dumb but I had to explain the gifts in some way, and…I thought about numbering them, but that wouldn’t really make sense, yeah? So I just found bits that matched the gift, you know, just to kind of… elaborate…” John trails off, running his hands over his face as he sighs. It’s adorable – he actually sounds frustrated with himself.

Sherlock reaches down to read the last of the notes.

“Put this in any liquid thing you will, and drink it off; and, if you had the strength of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.”

Sherlock stares down at the note. John has given him poisonous flowers. John has arranged to give him Shakespeare themed gifts. On Valentine’s Day. And none of them were ridiculous or useless or full of the sentimental romance that typically burdens this holiday. They were perfect. And John gave them. To him. He did all of this. For _him_.

“Uh, Sherlock?” John asks, stepping slightly closer.

Sherlock looks up at John now.

“Are you alright? Were the gifts… okay?” John asks.

“John…” Sherlock starts.

John smiles, encouraging, but the silence stretches.

And suddenly, Sherlock swirls on the spot and flees the room.

#### 

\------------------------

John Watson has made a terrible mistake.

He’s gone and attempted to woo Sherlock Holmes through morbid gifts on Valentine’s Day?

What was he actually thinking?

Sure, last Friday it had seemed like the perfect step forward in the odd camaraderie and what he thought was the romantic tension they’d found themselves in. The ideas for the gifts had come along after he’d ruled out chemistry tools as too expensive and not exactly poetic enough for his liking. What was left that he knew Sherlock was interested in was Shakespeare, and from there he just picked what he thought would be the most creative. The weirder, the better, he reasoned with himself.

Apparently, his confidence and careful planning had completely backfired.

Waiting the entire day to see Sherlock and his reaction to the gifts was torture. As each minute passed, he grew more nervous. Even the brief and unhelpful update from Molly at lunch did nothing to calm him, and he’d given in to the desire to text Sherlock before their study session; he had to make sure Sherlock hadn’t figured the whole thing out and was just going to stand him up.

He’d expected surprise, maybe uneasiness. He’d braced himself for rejection and only hoped for Sherlock to accept his romantic offerings.

What he hadn’t expected was the complete look of terror on Sherlock’s face and his immediate escape.

John had no idea what any of it meant, so naturally he assumed it was terrible.

He’d trudged home after that; no point in sitting in the chemistry room just on the small chance Sherlock might come back and shove the flowers in his face.

Now John was sat in his room, staring down at his textbook, trying to distract himself with something – anything except the horrible reality that was crashing down on him.

Not only had he screwed everything up with the most gorgeous, brilliant boy he’d ever met – but he was sure he’d lost a new friend as well. Someone he could trust, someone who he could always count on to be honest with him. Sherlock never bothered with the dramatics and lies his classmates seemed so caught up in; it was thrilling and incredibly endearing. 

Sherlock seemed to recognize something in John that he hadn’t even seen in himself, a quality of strength and value that had become more prevalent in John’s time with Sherlock. Sherlock’s encouragement and patience with John – when in the beginning, it seemed impossible to receive such things from him – meant a lot to him. 

And Sherlock… John saw things in Sherlock every day that amazed him. Well, every day that they were able to see each other. The more time John spent with him, the more he craved his presence: the way his mind sparked at impossible puzzles and conundrums, the excitement he generated it the simple realm of that chemistry lab, the speed at which he spoke that meant John had to do all he could just to keep up. He loved it. 

The sound of the doorbell broke John from his thoughts. It was probably just Harry’s date for tonight, though she was admittedly early.

John should probably answer it. Be the intimidating older brother and ask her questions while Harry finished getting ready. But honestly, he couldn’t be arsed to leave his room at the moment.

“John!” Harry shouted from downstairs.

Dammit.

“John! The door,” she yelled.

C’mon Harry, just get it yourself.

He waited, bracing himself as he heard footsteps pounding down the hallway. His door flung open to reveal Harry, half dressed with her hair in rollers.

“Didn’t you hear me, Johnny? The door, you idiot! It’s for you,” she said.

“What?” John asked.

“Christ, what’s wrong with you? You’ve got a handsome stranger at the door, now go snog him or tell him to sod off, I’ve a date to get ready for,” Harry snapped, leaving the door open as she trotted back down the hallway.

John stood slowly, attempting to tamper the thoughts running through his mind. He’d just have to see who it was before getting his hopes up… but he didn’t have long to wonder, because he rounded the corner quickly to see his “handsome stranger.”

Standing in his doorway was Sherlock Holmes.

And he was holding… a stack of notebooks?

“Sherlock? Why…” John starts.

“John. I’m sorry about earlier today. I hadn’t been prepared for your gifts, and in the lab I realized that—I just didn’t want—” Sherlock stops, grumbling under his breath.

John’s breath hitches at the unexpected pain of the added confirmation to his rejection. He spares Sherlock the need to explain.

“Sherlock, it’s okay. I get it, if you didn’t want this,” John gestures between the two of them. “To go anywhere, and the gifts freaked you out, it’s fine. It’s all fine. We can forget it ever happened.”

“No!” Sherlock shouts, walking through the doorway into the living room. “The gifts were perfect, John. They were exactly right, don’t you see? And I had no idea, absolutely _nothing_ to give you in return. And Valentine’s Day is about the exchanging of gifts, giving something romantic and—well, at least for us, somewhat useful to whomever you are interested in, something they like, something that has meaning. I was completely unprepared for the occasion, which is why I had to leave our meeting so suddenly.”

“Wait…what?” John asks.

Sherlock steps forward, presenting the small stack of notebooks to John. He takes them from Sherlock, as he describes each one in turn.

“The first is a new notebook for your school notes. Yours is absolutely atrocious, I hope you know. Deteriorates more every time you open it,” Sherlock says with a smirk. “The second is a medical journal, one popularly used by doctors. I thought it might be useful quite soon. And the last is just a writing notebook. For your personal use. I thought you might…”

John tears his gaze from the pristine notebooks in his hands.

“Thought I might what?” John asks, unable to keep the happiness from his face.

“You might like to write. On your own. Your paper was very good, and I think you have a talent for it,” Sherlock explains, a slight brush rising to his cheeks.

John sets the books down on the table. He can’t believe this is happening.

“You read my paper?” He asks.

“Of course, John. I had to be sure that, considering you asked me specifically for help, it would attain high marks. It was just a matter of waiting until the professor was out of her office – she hardly remembers to lock it, you see. It was the work of a moment to get into her filing cabinet, and of course from there I just had to find—”

Unable to contain it any longer, John rushes forward and grips either side of Sherlock’s face, bringing their lips together. It’s not graceful or perfect, and John is pretty sure Sherlock is still trying to talk, but he had to kiss him as soon as possible.

John relaxes his fingers and pulls away, revealing a frozen Sherlock with his eyes still closed.

John gives him some time to recover.

After a few breaths, Sherlock opens his eyes to gaze at John.

“Was that okay?” He asks.

Sherlock nods.

“Good… I—that’s good. Listen, I was thinking. Earlier at the lab, I didn’t get a chance to ask, but maybe we can go out some—” And John is just about to ask the boy of his dreams to dinner when his face is unceremoniously smashed against said boys face for the second time that day.

It’s Sherlock with his hands on John’s face this time, mimicking their exact position from the first kiss. Once John recovers from his surprise, he moves his lips slowly over Sherlock’s - just a slight tilt of his head, willing the other boy to relax.

John’s arms come up around Sherlock’s lanky frame, brushing underneath his long coat to run his hands over the shirt he’s wearing underneath.

Sherlock has understood the cue, tilting his head just so in the opposite direction. He steps closer when John’s arms move him slightly forward. John hums a pleased response.

Their bodies aren’t touching besides their hands and lips, which move softly and slowly in tandem against each other. It’s tentative and unhurried and absolutely perfect.

John breaks away first, keeping his arms loosely draped around Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock makes a small sound of protest before catching himself, opening his eyes to look into John’s.

John can’t help the ridiculous grin that’s been threatening to break through this entire time.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock,” he says, stepping close to wrap Sherlock in a tight hug.

Sherlock responds in kind, burying his face in John’s shoulder. It sends a warm shiver down John’s spine.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, John,” Sherlock replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are the best. You are dear to me. I adore you.
> 
> All of these things.
> 
> Kudos are lovely, comments are celebrated, but most of all - reading is the best. So if that's all you care to do, then thank you!
> 
> To know so many of you (and yes, even if it were just 10 hits, I would still be saying that) actually read this, bookmarked it, commented... I am flabbergasted. 
> 
> It kept me going when I thought for sure that no one would read my dumb ramblings.
> 
> A special shout-out goes to [unknownsister](http://unknownsister.tumblr.com/) who is basically my favorite person and the best cheerleader. She's also a fucking brilliant writer - you should go check out her stuff.
> 
> I have many ideas (*cough* moulin rouge au *cough*) poking around in my head, so I'm sure I'll be getting them up here sometime. If anyone is interested in helping as a beta in the future, please do let me know. 
> 
> Happy Christmas to those who celebrate, and Happy Holidays to those who don't! 
> 
> ALSO... come follow me on tumblr if you like! [intricatearticulation](http://intricatearticulation.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Cheers.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work is taken from The Doors song with the same title, which is a favorite of mine. I listened to their vinyl quite a bit when I was writing for no particular reason...


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